


in the light of our dreams.

by redhoods



Series: widofjord week 2019. [8]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragon Age Fusion, Domestic, M/M, Nightmares, Widofjord Week, post kirkwall chantry explosion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 10:40:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19294048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redhoods/pseuds/redhoods
Summary: Fjord’s so focused on what he’s doing that he misses the sound of someone approaching, lightning calling to his hand when he straightens up. His knee catches and he presses through it, but when he turns it’s just Caleb.He looks sheepish, a tray with drinks in his hands, “Sorry, liebling, I was not trying to frighten you,” he says carefully. His accent is still foreign to Fjord, harsher to his ears that have only been outside of Kirkwall in the last seven or so months.





	in the light of our dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> i’ve thought about this au a lot and will probably write more about it in the future. there’s stuff i didn’t get the chance to really dig into that i wanted to for this, but this is how the fic flowed.
> 
> for widofjord week day 5 - dreams and nightmares.
> 
> title from once we were from dragon age inquisition.

The sun is bearing down overhead and Fjord can feel sweat sliding down his back under his tunic. There’s nothing he can do about it, no shade for miles, so he swipes his arm over his forehead and keeps moving.

It’s not like he’s got to have this done today, but while he’s got the energy to do it, he wants to.

The dirt turns easily when he digs into it, working it up with his hands. His shoulders make it easier for him to do this by hand, rather than with any of the tools.

Of course, if Caleb were out here, he’d have it done in no time with a few flicks of his wrists. Magic comes so easily to him and Fjord feels like a child in comparison sometimes. Caleb has years in Circles under his belt though and all Fjord has is a life of hard labor behind him.

He doesn’t consider this hard labor, working he and Caleb’s land.

It’s all worth it, has been every day since they’d come across the old vineyard. It’d been nearly overrun with weeds, the old couple who’d been tending the land getting too high in their years to take care of it.

The old woman had been wary of Fjord, his broad shoulders and greyed out skin, the shaved off stumps where he’d once had horns. Her husband hadn’t been able to muster up half a damn to give about it. His words, not Fjord’s.

He’d seen Fjord’s broad shoulders and calloused hands and put him to work, teaching him how to tend to the land.

Neither one of them had ever asked any questions either, but Fjord knows now that Caleb had found old books on magic tucked away in the attic. He thinks the woman had been an apostate, part of the reason she’d taken to Caleb maybe. The two of them had made a strange pair of friends and she’d taught Caleb to make fresh bread and how to weave and knit.

They were gone now, moved on to somewhere closer to town more fitting for people in their years.

Caleb wrote to them about the land, telling them about Fjord deciding to make himself a garden. The letter following that declaration had come with seeds and a time table of the best times to plant vegetables.

Fjord’s so focused on what he’s doing that he misses the sound of someone approaching, lightning calling to his hand when he straightens up. His knee catches and he presses through it, but when he turns it’s just Caleb.

He looks sheepish, a tray with drinks in his hands, “Sorry, liebling, I was not trying to frighten you,” he says carefully. His accent is still foreign to Fjord, harsher to his ears that have only been outside of Kirkwall in the last seven or so months.

“It’s alright,” Fjord says, releasing his hold of the magic and brushing his hands off on his pants, “Whatcha got there?”

There’s a beat where Caleb simply observes him from under the fringe of his hair, lit up like fire around his head. He’s been growing it out, something about how his first circle, the original, had never allowed that.

He sucks his tongue eventually, then jiggles his tray, “Just water,” his lips flatten a little, “You’ve been out here for hours, I was getting worried.” He adds it quieter, like a secret.

Or like he’s ashamed.

Fjord isn’t sure which and he’s not thinking about it.

“Has it been hours?” He asks instead, swiping the back of his hand over his forehead again, overly aware of the way Caleb’s eyes track the movement.

Caleb hums his affirmative. 

Reaching out, Fjord takes one of the glasses and lifts it to his lips. Some distant part of him is still aware of Caleb’s attention tracking his movements, and he continues not to pretend not to notice.

The water is cold though and he’s grateful for it.

“Maybe it’s time I come in then,” he says, once he’s downed half the water. He’s a little tempted to dump the rest of it over his head and then decides he’s worried Caleb would combust if he did.

It’s been a weird dance between the two of them, mutual attraction and affection and trust tangled up into a mess of emotions and feelings that neither of them are equipped to actually handle. It’s already bubbled up once.

More than once.

It’s the wine.

Wine seems to make him more affectionate in the way it causes Caleb to loosen up and relax, all dark eyes and flushed cheeks.

Fjord clears his throat.

Caleb nods, “I worry about you under the sun so much,” he says and abruptly turns walking back towards the little house that is now theirs.

Huffing to himself, Fjord shakes his head and scoops up his basket of tools, trailing behind the human. He ducks around the side of the house when Caleb goes through the door.

The shed door is still open and he drops the basket just inside for tomorrow, if the storm that’s been brewing on the fringes of the horizon doesn’t roll in first. He pumps some water up from the well and washes himself up as best he can without stripping down on the spot.

His tunics almost completely soaked by the time he’s done but there’s no more dirt under his nails and he mostly doesn’t smell like sweat and dirt any longer. He’s also aware of the length of his own hair, the way it’s starting to curl up around what’s left of his horns and wonders if Caleb would take the shears to it if he asked.

He tables the idea and ducks into the house, careful now after weeks of smacking his forehead off the frame. Inside, the ceiling is higher and he’s got less to worry about.

Caleb’s not in the front room so Fjord ducks through the open frames, moving through the hall and peeking into the small rooms of the house. He finds him in the kitchen, chopping something, “Need help?”

“Only if you -“ whatever he was going to say cuts off when he glances over and sees Fjord, “- clean up. Dice the potatoes, would you?”

Fjord nods and settles up beside him, scooping a few potatoes out of the basket, “What are you making?” He asks, glancing over to see that Caleb’s not chopping, but breaking down pieces of meat.

He’s very good at it, fingers and movements sure.

“Nothing fancy,” Caleb answers, like he always does.

Shaking his head, Fjord starts chopping the potatoes like he was bid and is only half aware of Caleb moving around and stoking the fire. 

It’s the routine they’ve settled into in the last month and a half.

Some days it doesn’t seem like its been that long, but days like today? It feels like they could’ve known each other for years.

Caleb takes his chopped potatoes and dumps them in a pot with water and hangs it over the fire, while Fjord steps back out of his way, more than aware of his own habit of simply getting in the way by the sheer bulk of himself.

The way Caleb does everything is methodical, even cooking, and it’s a little mesmerizing to Fjord, who’s much more chaotic in his approach to... well, everything.

“Why don’t you get the table set up?” Caleb asks, when Fjord’s done nothing but stand in the corner like an awkward statue.

Grateful for something to do with himself, Fjord takes their usual plates and flatware through the doorway and into the small dining area. Though small is generous for someone of his size.

It wasn’t made with Qunari in size, but two humans. 

He and Caleb have gotten very good at squeezing themselves in at the table and pretending like the way their legs tangle isn’t intimate.

“Wine?” Fjord asks, because he’s already warm and too big in his own skin, might as well compound on everything he’s feeling a little. He doesn’t look at Caleb when he asks though, merely hovers by the cabinet with the bottles.

Caleb hums and Fjord listens to the meat sizzle as Caleb dumps it into the pan. There’s a moment where he thinks he was supposed to interpret Caleb’s hum as an answer, but then a hand touches his back and Caleb leans around him to reach into the cabinet.

It’s unnecessary contact and Fjord sways a little into the hand on his back.

“I don’t think we’ve tried this one,” Caleb says, voice somewhere around Fjord’s shoulder, low and smooth. He places the bottle on the work surface and then withdraws all at once.

Fjord ducks his chin to his chest and breathes heavily through his nose, for what feels like a telling amount of time.

Eventually, he shifts into movement again, picking up the bottle and taking it to the table. He’s about to sit when he realizes he’s forgotten the glasses, but Caleb comes through the doorway with two in his hand. 

“I’m not planning on drinking from the bottle,” Caleb teases, his way of saying that he saw Fjord leave without them and also that he probably knows the sort of effect that he has on Fjord.

It wouldn’t surprise Fjord if he did know.

Caleb folds down into his own chair, his knees knocking against Fjord’s before he slots his legs along Fjord’s, “We’ll have to make a trip to the market soon.”

Scrunching his nose, Fjord sighs, “Storm is rolling in,” he says instead of complaining. They both know he’ll join Caleb at the market, even if he doesn’t want to. It’s safer if the both of them go and as much as he’d love to, the two of them can’t stay sequestered in this house alone forever.

“I smelled it outside,” Caleb says, “Tomorrow, you think?”

Fjord curls his fingers into his palms, then nods, “Yeah.” His energy feels too close to the surface, threatening to spill out at any moment, “Gonna be a big one.”

Caleb jiggles his legs, wiggling Fjord with him, “Anything we need to prep outside before it rolls in?”

Tipping his head from side to side, Fjord draws the bottle to him and picks at the label, “Make sure we’ve got all the doors and windows closed this time?” He says, lifting his gaze to meet Caleb’s.

It has the desired effect, the slow curl of Caleb’s lips, the soft huff of laughter.

“Why don’t you open that while I check the food?” Caleb pulls his legs away and stands, pausing like he’s going to say something else. He shakes his head instead and steps back into the kitchen.

Fjord watches him go, doesn’t bother pretending when he’s watching Caleb any more. There’s no point. He uses his knife to pop the cork loose and sets the bottle down on the table. After a minute of waiting by himself, he stands and decides to do his own circuit of the house, closing up the doors and windows.

Usually, they leave it all open, letting whatever breeze comes through whip through the house, otherwise it becomes like a brick oven.

Caleb’s room is a surprising disarray, books and papers all over as well as clothing and whatever other bits and pieces Caleb’s collected in the months since they fled the city. His staff is propped up in the corner and something settles in Fjord seeing it there.

When they’d first met, Caleb’s knuckles had been white and he hadn’t let go of the thing for a week and a half, even sleeping curled around the thing.

He hasn’t seen it in Caleb’s hand in two weeks.

Swallowing back whatever potential implications that carries, he closes and latches the window and ducks into his own room to do the same.

Stepping back into the kitchen, he finds Caleb mashing up the potatoes, dumping the last little bit of cream they have into it as he does so. “Want me to do that?” Fjord offers, stepping up close.

“No,” Caleb answers, short and succinct and Fjord nods, scooping up the tray of meat and returning to the table.

He’s been slowly learning not to take offense to Caleb’s occasional short answers or his unwillingness to relent some tasks. Caleb has explained it to him once, about how being in the circle hadn’t really taught him much about living, especially on his own, and how he wanted to learn now.

The sentence had ended “here, with you” and Fjord had spent the next hour in a daze while time continued to move around him.

Caleb joins him with the bowl of mashed potatoes and Fjord thinks about kissing him, but doesn’t.

———

After they finish dinner and wash up the dishes, Fjord lets himself be propelled into the front room. Caleb nudges him down onto the small couch that also barely holds the two of them.

He’s got a book in one hand and his wine glass in the other and Fjord is carefully not to squeeze his own too tight when Caleb sits next to him, then turns, slinging his legs over Fjord’s lap. He tentatively rests his hand on Caleb’s calf and wonders silently at the difference between the breadth of his hand and the way Caleb feels very small and breakable.

Caleb starts reading and Fjord only half hears him, sipping his wine slowly. Eventually, he tips his head back against the wall behind the couch and just exists while Caleb’s voice washes over him.

Once, after the old couple had moved on, Caleb had offered to teach him to read.

Fjord had spent the entire day outside, avoiding him, and hating himself for being angry. He hadn’t even been sure why he’d been angry, just that he desperately had been.

It’d taken him two days to apologize and he still doesn’t think Caleb understands, but he hasn’t offered again.

Instead he does this, reads books to Fjord, even though he knows Fjord doesn’t absorb much, if any, of the actual text. It’s soothing though and Fjord doesn’t know how to explain that either.

He’s realizing he doesn’t know how to explain much of anything with regards to his own feelings and Caleb. He knows there’s a lot of them though and at any given moment, they threaten to drown him.

“Fjord.”

He blinks at the ceiling and then lifts his head, “Hm?”

Toes dig into his thigh, “I thought you’d fallen asleep on me,” Caleb sounds amused and when Fjord finally turns to him, he looks it as well.

“Sorry, lost in my thoughts,” he rubs his hand over his jaw and then downs the rest of his wine. When he looks over, the book is gone and Caleb’s glass is empty as well, “More wine?” He offers, holding his hand out.

Caleb hums softly, “I’ll get the bottle,” he says and hands Fjord his glass. His palm lands on Fjord’s shoulders and he uses it to lever himself up. And Fjord’s heart very nearly stops on the spot when Caleb stoops briefly to brush a kiss just under the base of his left horn stump.

It’s a good thing he doesn’t want to deal with broken glass.

He doesn’t even watch Caleb leave, has no idea how much time has passed when Caleb returns with the bottle. Caleb’s cheeks are pink and Fjord doesn’t even know if it’s due to that display of affection, the wine, or the general warmth of the house.

“Hold this,” Caleb says, also passing him the bottle, before he simply sprawls down onto the house, half across Fjord’s lap, half onto his own side. As soon as he’s settled, he takes the bottle back and fills each of their glasses, nearly to the brim, “There,” he sounds so pleased with himself that Fjord grins.

The bottle gets placed on the floor and Fjord hands Caleb his glass back.

He resists the urge to knock all of his back in one go. It’s not like they’re ever going to be hurting for wine for the rest of their lives, but it’s nice to enjoy it.

Caleb does not seem to have the same qualms and Fjord isn’t fast enough to pull his eyes from watching the line of Caleb’s throat. “Ah,” Caleb says and the candles lit around the room flicker.

Fjord swallows thickly and thunder booms outside.

Having been caught, he doesn’t look away, watching Caleb place his glass on the floor and the way he shuffles around, until he’s on his knees next to Fjord on the couch. “I really want to kiss you,” Caleb says, so quiet.

Fjord only nods once, then Caleb is there, pressed against his side, a hand on his shoulder and one on his jaw, turning his face.

“Last chance,” Caleb’s eyes are on Fjord’s mouth, so he licks his lips, and Caleb ducks in immediately, pressing their mouths together. It’s a little too fast, their lips getting mashed, but Caleb mumbles an apology and tries again.

The second time is better, the third better than that, and the fourth impossibly so.

When Caleb finally slumps back to his own side of the couch, Fjord’s face feels raw from beard burn and his lips are tingling and his entire body feels lit up. He drains the rest of his glass, needing something to do, otherwise he’s going to pin Caleb to the couch and never let him up again.

“I am glad I did that,” Caleb says suddenly, half leaned over to pick his glass back up, “And I’d like to do it again in the future,” he adds. He sits back, leaning against the arm of the couch, “Perhaps when wine isn’t involved.”

Fjord nods, twisting his glass in his hands, “I’d like that.”

Caleb smiles and then levers himself up off the couch, taking both of their glasses and the bottle of wine. “I think I’m going to take myself to bed,” he says, pausing to press a kiss to the top of Fjord’s head, just behind one of his horn stumps, “I will see you in the morning.”

“Sleep well,” Fjord says quietly and watches him go.

—————-

Fjord is sleeping, dreamless, but not so deep, the sounds of the storm outside keeping him from drifting too deep. It’s only because of the storm that he hears it, the screaming that on other nights would echo through the house.

Before he even realizes it, he’s out of bed and crossing the hall.

Caleb is still asleep, sweat plastering his sleep shirt to his skin, his hair almost matted with it. And he’s screaming, back arched away from the bed. There’s fire building, Fjord can taste the magic of it in the air.

He sits on the edge of the bed and flings his arm out, pushing Caleb down, “Caleb!” 

There’s no response, Caleb struggles against his hold, and he is burning up. It feels like Caleb is made of burning embers and Fjord ignores it, hauling Caleb across the bed, barring his arms around Caleb, holding him tight against his chest.

“Caleb, love, please, you need to wake up,” he begs, face against Caleb’s hair, rocking them both back of forth.

It calms him a little, screams dying down until he’s sobbing in his sleep, still thrashing against Fjord.

Thunder booms loud outside and Caleb jerks in his grasp, then gasps awake.

“Easy, Caleb, I got you,” he says lowly, mouth near Caleb’s ear. He shushes him gently, rubbing his hand in gentle sweeps over Caleb’s back until the human sinks against his chest.

His breathing is ragged and Fjord can feel his heart thundering under his palm. so he continues shushing him nonsensically, while his heart rate slowly climbs down. Caleb doesn’t try to pull away though, staying tucked up under Fjord’s chin, “I’m sorry I woke you,” he croaks out, voice hoarse after so much screaming.

“Don’t be,” he says and scoops his arm under Caleb’s knees ad stands.

Caleb tries to protest.

Fjord keeps walking, “I’m not leaving you alone for the rest of the night after that,” he says, trying for that chiding tone that Caleb gets when Fjord’s being stubborn about accepting help, “Besides, I think your bed is soaked through with sweat.”

That gets him quiet, so Fjord continues into his own room and sits Caleb on the mattress.

Caleb reaches for him immediately, before he has the chance to back away, “Stay? Please?”

“Of course.”

It takes some shuffling and arranging for the two of them to fit. When it was just him, the bed was a decently fit, but add in another full grown man and there was a bit of a squeeze.

He ends up on his back, with Caleb sprawled over his chest, his reticence about being taken care of evaporated in the face of apparent exhaustion. “Get some rest, Caleb, I won’t go anywhere,” he reassures and presses a kiss to the top of his head.

Caleb hums and starts gently running his hand up and down Fjord’s side in comforting sweeps.

—————

When he comes to, it’s still raining outside and Fjord’s pleasantly surprised to find that Caleb’s still there, still sprawled against his chest. “Mornin’,” he greets, not quite ready to open his eyes. He wraps an arm around Caleb’s back.

Lips press to his jaw, “Morning, liebling,” is Caleb’s quiet response, “I hope I did not wake you.”

Fjord’s never heard that word sound so soft out of Caleb and it fills his chest with warmth. He blinks his eyes, brings a hand up to scrub at his face, “You didn’t,” he answers and when he drops his hand, he realizes that Caleb’s got a book propped open on his palm.

Warmth suffuses him, the idea that Caleb had left to get his book and had still chosen to return to the room, to get back into the bed.

“How long have you been awake?” He asks, running his hand up and down Caleb’s back, unintentionally rucking up his sleep shirt as he does so. Caleb looks rested, doesn’t look like he woke up screaming part way through the night.

Caleb arches into the touch with a happy sigh, “Not very long, half an hour maybe.”

Fjord smiles, can’t stop the pull at his lips now, “Want to get some breakfast?” He offers, palming up under Caleb’s shirt, following the curve of his spine. Now that he can, now that he knows it’s welcome, he’s not sure how he’s ever going to stop himself from touching.

“Tempting,” Caleb answers and Fjord’s not sure if he means the hand under his shirt or the prospect of breakfast, but he’s eager to find out.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on twitter and tumblr.


End file.
